nice things lately
girlie so groovy
Black Francis Screaming at the Hollywood Bowl
It makes sense that, out of all of the iconic '90s rock vocalists, Frank Black would be the one to consider his screaming voice his instrument, to take care of it with proper technique. (Or maybe I just enjoy the imagined sight of him in a lesson with an opera instructor, scream singing WAHHH HA HA HAOOOOO.)
J and I have seen a lot of longtime favorites and heroes in concert lately—Elvis Costello at the Greek, then Neil Young a month later, and finally Frank Black, along with Joey Santiago, Dave Lovering, and Paz Lenchantin, the only conceivable bassist with the bonafides and arid voice to stand in for Kim Deal.
I am not a completist of many bands. There’s a certain kind of fandom that I don’t really like—the kind that leads you to demand other, perhaps less completist fans name at least three songs. (J, bless his heart, was shocked to discover that wasn’t just a joke, but an actual thing men sometimes say to women, especially at hardcore shows.) (And yes, I can name more than three Skeletonwitch songs, thank you very much, Raymond.) I don’t want my enjoyment of something to become the acquisition of my ego. In the same way, I don’t really care about rare books, or even the Book As Object. What matters to me is the words. What matters to me is the room where I live with the music.
And yet, I was absolutely a Pixies completist. In college, I made a T-shirt that said I AM UN CHIEN ANDALOU in fuzzy black iron-on letters and frequently wore that with a thrifted houndstooth miniskirt. The Pixies had been over for almost 10 years at that point, but it didn’t matter. It seemed like they were the only band that basically everyone liked, or at least the band that everyone I liked liked. If I had ever gotten a band tattoo (which I believe to be a unilaterally bad idea), it would have been a stylized Pixies P. I even went all the way to DC to see Frank Black & the Catholics, and got him to sign the pickguard of my bass.
Seeing your heroes, especially some years after their most popular output, is a mixed bag. I’m sad to say that the first 30 minutes of the Elvis Costello show made me nervous more than anything. His voice was struggling to get up to some of the high notes, and it seemed like something was off with the monitors because the timing was a little slippy. The piano-backed version of “Accidents Will Happen” was a disaster. To be fair, that melody is difficult. It moves in a few strange intervals, and the lone piano didn’t provide enough reference to build it on. Neil Young had none of these technical issues, but he suffered the fools yelling I LOVE YOU NEIL, WOOOO!! between every song.
Whatever, this is all a preamble to say: The Pixies sounded fucking amazing. They did not fuck around. They did not banter. They did not for a second allow you to wonder if they were going to be able to shamble their way to the end of the song. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a tight band. I was not prepared for the utter, perfect joy I would experience every time Black Francis let it rip vocally. I have never—never!—had any respect for the practice of following a band on tour. (I’m sorry, it’s just the truth.) But this show was so good that I think it would be kind of fun to drive to Arizona or whatever to see it again.
the Theraface
There comes a time in a human’s life where they begin to see lines on their face. Lines which were not there. Lines between the eyebrows which make you look perpetually angry/confused. Lines which, in a certain raking side light, make you look old as shit. Which is fine! Being old as shit is great. In every way except the face.
So when I turned 40, I asked my parents for the gift of the obscenely expensive Theraface, which includes various massaging nubbins, a light ring offering red/blue/purple infrared, heating and cooling attachments, and a microcurrent treatment attachment.
I’m so sorry to tell you this, but it’s awesome, and it has made my face look absolutely fantastic. I don’t even know how microcurrent treatment works, and I kind of suspect that the benefit really just comes from improved circulation. But I don’t care, and also, I have never encountered such a profound relaxation of my clenched jaw.
spicy miso-roasted tomatoes and eggplant
One sign of a good recipe: When you look through the ingredients and see nothing particularly special or unusual, but somehow the resulting dish tastes amazing. I’ll admit, I can be a bit of a hectic chef. You say two cloves of garlic? I say six. I’m not measuring a tablespoon of lemon juice. I’m not measuring grated ginger; the only quantity of ginger that I’ll truck with is “might be too much.” Maybe it’s because I’m an ex-smoker and my palate is still jaded five years after my last American Spirit, but I don’t think so. This mainly works for me. I understand the components of flavor and how to balance them out. I’ve never made a good peanut sauce without following a precise recipe, but that’s one of the few exceptions.
Amy Chaplin’s recipes are quite the contrary. I follow them precisely, and they are constantly delicious and a little surprising. There’s absolutely nothing groundbreaking about miso-glazed roasted eggplant, but jeez, this recipe, what is it? The coriander? The juice from the roasting tomatoes? I have no idea.
Suave coconut conditioner
You can’t risk having bummy hair in LA. There are already too many opportunities to be or feel bummy, just innately, floating around like oxygen and ozone and whiffs of Salt & Stone santal deodorant. Also, if like me, you are a literary dirtbag and your whole “thing” kind of skews bummy, so you need to have a fresh face and shiny hair to communicate that your 35-year-old Garfield t-shirt from the Rose Bowl flea market is a choice. A stylish choice made by a healthy person who could wear the whole Sephora store H2T but doesn’t need to, babe.
So you cannot fuck around with “natural” conditioners which claim to be “free” of silicones and phthalates. Because, listen to me: A life without silicones is not free.
I had the most nightmarish Medusa hair when I first moved to LA. The water here is so hard that we actually have to dump out opaque mineral chunks from the kettle every few months. A kind stylist from Freija got me onto the clarifying shampoo that has fixed things most of the way, but my conditioner situation was still not working until I went all the way to the bottom shelf of the hair care aisle in Target and found the old favorite, the old workhorse: Suave coconut conditioner.
Please note, coconut is only present here as a signifier. I’m pretty sure this conditioner is all plastic and fats and chemicals (just like us! <3). As Gang of Four would say, natural’s not in it. But that’s the magic. If you put three pumps of Suave conditioner on your long, formerly bleached hair, it will turn into a sleek slip of ink and dry shiny, light, and lovely. And it costs $2.60. (My secret trick, back when I was a platinum babe, was to cut super expensive Davines Alchemic Silver conditioner with Suave to make it last longer.)
Everything is personal and subjective, of course, and I’m sure there’s someone who can prove that sulfates are actually rilly bad. But I just want to empower you to reconsider that sometimes the all-natural option is actually worse.
There are no sponsored links in this post (but hell, maybe there should be). Theraface? Call me. I look like I’m barely old enough to go bowling by myself. <3
And as always, thanks for reading! It’s always nice to see you.